Literary Red
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: Defying definitions. Vaughn’s journey through the world of literary colour symbolism. A Dream Writer Experience.


**Title:** Literary Red  
**Author:** Dream Writer 4 Life  
**Rating:** PG-13 for implications  
**Genre:** Angst with a tinge of romance  
**Archived:** SD-1, here, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!  
**'Shippers' Paradise:** Me/V...Oh wait! You meant the story! S/V, o' course!  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** Anytime between 3.19 "Hourglass" and 3.20 "Blood Ties"...Before JJ committed a felony and re-murdered Vaughn's character.  
**Summary:** Vaughn's journey through the world of literary colour symbolism. A Dream Writer Experience.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait! No it's not! Keep reading!  
**Suggested Soundtrack:** "My Immortal" by Evanescence and "Broken" by Seether feat. Amy Lee  
**Author's Note:** A procrastination piece. Enjoy!

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Literary Red

Colour.

Flowers use it to attract bees for pollenation. Bright colours are nature's equivalents of billboards one hundred feet long.

Artists use it (or lack thereof) to evoke specific emotions based off of universal definitions of the words. Three basic colours mixed to create an array of shades, each having characteristics of those supposed 'emotions'.

Authors use colour in much the same way: to symbolize a habit or trait or quirk, sometimes beating the reader over the head with the fact that they are telling something without actually _telling_ it.

Sydney taught me about the literary use of colour. She forced me to read The Scarlet Letter and sat next to me the entire time, pointing out every single nuance of Hawthorne's diction, syntax, and rhetoric. While I found it supremely annoying at the time, one tidbit stuck with me.

"Do you know why the letter itself is red?"

"No, Sydney, why is the letter itself red?" I responded sardonically.

"Because red is the colour of passion," She had replied, completely ignoring my attitude. _"Red is — red is love; red is hatred; red is anger. Red is any extreme on any spectrum anywhere in the world." _

"Red is blood," I added carefully, unusually thoughtful.

She had replied, completely ignoring my attitude. I added carefully, unusually thoughtful. 

She nodded enthusiastically, probably ecstatic that I was finally taking interest. _"Red is life. Red symbolizes living life to the fullest in whichever direction one may choose." _

"Are we red?"

She thought for a moment. _"We're so red, we're almost blue."_

I don't think I ever finished that book.

But with Lauren...everything's different. _Everything._ She bucks _all_ conventional, accepted meanings to _every_ colour possible. How was I supposed to know she was duplicitous when our definitions for every sign (warning, road, or otherwise) paralleled to the same extent as perpendicular roads?

Lauren's skin is pale, and I mean pale-as-paper pale. She'd-get-lost-in-the-tundra pale. You walk outside with her on a sunny day and there's a glare, she's that pale. According to _every single book ever written EVER_, being pale means being delicate, demure, pleasant, proper, _feminine_. And that's exactly what I thought she was...Up until I found that wig in her suitcase. Now I know that Lauren is anything _but_ delicate and demure.

At least with Sydney, I had _some_ warning. When I first saw her she was pale (at least, compared to that hair). I made the mistake of thinking that was her _normal_ appearance, and when she showed up to our first meeting looking slightly more Californian, I made the even bigger mistake of treating her like a delicate little flower. Let's just say I _definitely_ learn from my mistakes. She adapts her skin tone to her aliases, but underneath the make-up and the bronzer, she had healthy, genuine, peachy skin. And even though she does have a temper, the literary rule applies to her: most of the time (especially when she's away from work) she's agreeable and displays an even keel. At least, she _used_ to.

Sydney's eyes range from milk chocolate to dark chocolate with warmth to match. They're hot double-fudge chocolate in Siberia during the depths of winter. They're polished mahogany, elbow greased and spit shined. They're clear as a cloudless day and readable as fresh skywriting. They're loyalty and sturdiness personified. They radiate strength and vulnerability and warmth and love and hope, and when they're trained on you, they make you want to be the best person in the world because _she's really looking at **you**_.

Lauren's eyes, despite having the same colour — at least on the surface — they couldn't have more different meanings. They're twin murky cesspools consistently filled with lies, hatred, and betrayal with mud, weeds, and dead fish floating at the surface. They're quicksand, pulling under anyone who ventures near and suffocating them so slowly they don't even know it's happening. And she got me. There's no way around it: I was naive enough to walk right into her pit, and she just gobbled me up without any reservations. At the time, I thought brown was brown was brown was brown: whatever shade, it all has the same meaning. I should have known I would never find another woman who superbly fit every definition of a brown-eyed beauty.

Speaking of brown...

Lauren's a natural brunette. _Believe me._ Unfortunately, I would know. So all the blonde jokes in the world couldn't be applied even if you tried. She gives blondes everywhere a bad reputation; hell, she gives _women_ everywhere a bad reputation. But the literary/Hollywood portrayal of blondes _does_ apply. They're typically gold diggers out for money. I guess that's her, although she's digging for something that's a little bit different than gold. She's also up for the Worst Spy of All Time Award: she doesn't talk in code; security cameras have shown her making phone calls in the middle of the Ops Centre; and she brings her disguises home. I think that fills the stupid blonde stereotype. But at least it's good to know her eyebrows match _something._

I've always loved Sydney's brown hair. She rarely dyes it, so the shade it is now is pretty damn close to what she was born with. I loved washing it, running my fingers through the long strands and smoothing out any knots. It embodied every aspect about her: it was sleek and strong, just like her. It was plain, but could be twisted into so many variations, just like her. It even embodied her most inherent and fervent wish: how much more _normal_ can you get than basic brown hair? I remember she relished brushing her hair because it made her look and feel so normal.

Red is the colour of my true love's kiss: red for passion, love, life.

I miss that so much.

Sure, I see red when I'm forced to kiss Lauren, but it's more out of pure hatred, anger, and the unquenchable need to strangle her 'til I draw blood.

I want Sydney's definition of red. I want the passion. I want the love. I want to be so red, I'm practically blue. I want to feel like I'm living life to the fullest, not wasting it being someone's lap dog. I want Sydney.

Soon enough. It'll happen soon enough. I have faith. The red _will_ return to my life. The _Faux Rouge Femme_ will find eternal rest in the fiery pits from whence she formed. And I'll be Literary Red with my true love until red fades to black.

**_END_**


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